"SKINS" Open Mic: Kim Selling

If every bastard who had ever judged my body
were lined up in front of me firing squad style,
and I were given the right to do with them as I pleased,
I would be at a loss.
I would probably yell “EAT ME!”
cuz I love a good fat girl pun.
But there’s nothing else left inside
to make them understand the extreme ignorance and mis-spent pain that they embody.
You can all
just
fucking
eat me.
Devour my scarlet throbbing flesh
like junior high vultures.
Like sorority pledge councils.
Like debutante beauty queens.
I don’t look like you.
What the fuck else is new?
There’s no footnote in the regulations index of my life
that says I have to sleep on elipticals
and suck down the hopeful semen of boys named Jimmy
until you understand my body.
You wont ever understand my body.
I am Miss Piggy.
I am Mama Cass.
I am fuckin’ Aretha.
And I love being these women.
I love being fat.
My thighs shriek rough and ready sex
like downtown thunder.
My ass drips vanilla milkshakes,
and my personal style is baby gay Madonna meets crop top goth
and it doesn’t
fuckin’
matter.
Being fat doesnt make me different.
Fuck, I look like America.
But loving that I’m fat
makes me a Pillsbury rebellion.
I hold protests in my mouth every time I eat in public.
Picket signs wallpaper my willing body
when I dance naked in my apartment.
Riots Not Diets is tattoed across my chest.
And I live for the moment when I shock you into silence.
Because being me is fucking political.
And you never voted for this shit.
Body image is just bad English for
how hard you stomp the sidewalks
and how many cracks in the mirror you’ve traced.
I may have been picked last for softball,
but I was nationally ranked in tennis.
And you’ll never be ready for this jelly
cuz all you eat are sad-ass spoonfulls of
organic low sodium peanut butter.
Speak the truth here.
Yeah, I tend to date black guys and I rarely say no to a homemade baked good,
but that says no more about me than
how you chew Big Red compulsively when you’re nervous
or how you can never say no to your mother says about you.
So just let it be.
We’re grownups now,
I think.
There are no more lunchtime kickball teams,
and I already have a date to the next dance,
so, when you feel the need
to pretend to be concerned about my “health” or “well-being”,
just know that I’ve already let go of the trigger,
firing squad style.
Just know that you don’t have to count the calories
when I tell you to fucking
eat me.